The GGP Collective: Summer Quarterly 2024

Summer Quarterly, 2024: Issue 10

The GGP Collective

Ⓒ Glass Gates Publishing, 2024

“[...]the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

Jack Kerouac

Acknowledgments A very special thank you to all of our contributing writers. Without the courage to share your words and work with others, our little publication could not exist.

Please find our contributors and follow their pages on social media for more!

Follow @glassgatespublishing on Instagram for more announcements and future calls for submissions All art for this issue is credited to Irina Tall (Novikova). ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

Noor Beliën Irina Tall (Novikova) Edward L. Canavan John Sweet Rebecca Agauas Morgan Boyer Liezl Villanueva Chelsey Jordan Siyona Jasmine Tate N.C. Dave Kurley Michelle N. Rain Adam Brooks 4rgos M. Baxter Rina Malagayo Alluri Samantha Silverstein Bailey Diane Jackson Anne Kulou

Table of Contents ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

Entropy of Ecstasy From life or ha [confirming humanity] [flower, beast, and bird] [little voids] the oblique memories, thin as shadows Grandpa Slate Tiles Heroes of Papyrus Bleeding Heart Arctic Heart Sunrises Love’s Latest Trend Heatwave Am I More Than Skin Pure Again Herald.

Cycles Bungalows of belonging The Floppy Headed Boy and the Raven Haired Girl Sunkissed Days Like These Unbiased Love intimate nostalgia

Entropy of Ecstasy To be a writer is to be an entropy of ecstasy.

It is to lie awake at night, sweating, to feel the blood throbbing in your arteries, as the undeniable need to create drips off your skin, onto the paper.

It is to revel in your sorrows, for it is in your tears where you find the music, which you carve out of your soul with a knife as you feel the cold metal on your skin.

It is consuming yourself from the inside out, eating your heart and licking the remnants off the sharp edges of the platter.

It is to linger perpetually between the threads of a thin curtain separating the virtuous and the sinful.

It is to savor your own blood, to fly high up in the sky, perhaps too close to the sun, to get a taste of the immortality that only comes with the everlasting taking apart of one’s soul.

Noor Beliën Bio: Noor Beliën is an emerging writer living in Belgium. She is a seventeen year old high school student who spends most of her time reading and writing. After graduating high school, she aspires to study english literature at Ghent university. She has been previously published in online literary magazines such as The Malu Zine, Adolescence Literary Magazine, Bitter Melon Review, and elsewhere. You can find her @writtenbynoorr on instagram.

From life or ha I think the clock has stopped And the arrows froze In the unknown In the whiteness of the night, Where there are many bright burning flowers in the sky...

I run my tongue across my palm And a snowflake cuts my sky, Burning pink in blue Dying in eternity My warmth...

I feel like I'm becoming a fish...

In eternity one fish lives It's like being in the universe Many stars Blue ones that look like a lagoon...

The oceans part before her size, Big gray eyes...

So that she can give birth to new...

Secretly preserving life...

He and she are the ghosts of time, those who were carried away like the wind and there was no memory of dust left, about which they no longer write, I am like the one who can remember them, name them and probably... She slightly touched his dark hand, with light eyes pointed to the scarlet thread, to the umbilical cord connecting the worlds, to you and no one else... like the inscriptions on their small palms... And he, his horns suddenly grew... One big and the other small... The ornament on her dress caught fire, blinked his eyes and stared at the thin white trees behind them, everything living in this world, even the web, has thoughts..

From life or hate, From what is possible cannot be seen in daylight.

She always keeps her secret...

Sometimes she is compared with a cat, probably because of the thin fingers and sharp nails...

They call her Siren, But her voice is deep Than tall and I will never be able Forget her...

Her only name Kept secret...

Irina Tall (Novikova)

Bio: Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.

The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various fantastic creatures: unicorny the Exhibition is Irina s, animals with human faces, she especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review, Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of poetry "The wonders of winter".

[confirming humanity] embedded and hardwired into the minds of our machines is the failsafe of asking us if we are robots before allowing us to enter their domain yet we have no such protection preventing them from using that information against us.

[flower, beast, and bird] caught in contraptions of faith and belief man-made relics of accountability attributed to make-believe gods negates the most basic urge to live fully as a part of the universe by removing the inner divine and placing it on a crumbling pedestal of worship.

Edward L. Canavan

[little voids] black holes on sunlit days eyes full of dead flowers mouth broken and decayed sweltering thru the hot season walking the lifeless streets past broken windows and dim bulbs as a warm gust wraps itself around my aching heart i sigh as the church bells ring one o’clock and the day goes on regardless of death and want and loss and confusion and i push forward regardless of everything else.

Edward L. Canavan Bio: Edward L. Canavan is a Los Angeles based poet whose work has most recently appeared in New Croton Review, The Opiate, and the Collapse Press Anthology “Letters for the End Times”.

He has 2 poetry collections published by Cyberwit Press.

Born and raised in the Bronx, NY, Edward currently resides in North Hollywood, California, where he practices Buddhism and is currently listening to Barry Adamson.

the oblique sunlight in the spaces between houses map of loss geography of both memory and sorrow and then what? find the man with the crosses carved into his palms find the one with the head ofh a crow, with the mind of a jackal the junkie hymns are what matter here, and the prayers of murdered dreamers gold and myrrh and that all gifts are weapons that all lovers believe in resurrection the heart betrays the body yes but then the body betrays the soul ecstasy precedes despair the desert spreads without mercy in every direction john sweet

memories, thin as shadows sweating in codeine sleep, this rain, this fever, too many thoughts obscured by others, too much light and sound, and in my dreams you are always someone i never loved in my dreams we lie next to each other, naked in strange sunlight, naked in early spring with the land blue & gold and falling away in every direction in my dreams we lie we are naked, you and i, in beds of regret and with our hands bound tight we are ourselves dreamt we are frightened i will forget your name, but not the warmth of your body john sweet

Bio: John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).

Grandpa Grandpa He worked in a scrap yard, crushing cars and melting metal.

Grandfather I later found out that he crushed more than just cars in that yard.

Bubba Doesn’t matter, he’s the only man to ever love me unconditionally.

Zayde Every Sunday, he sat at the kitchen table with a cigar in one hand, smoking it down to a nub while he told stories of the past.

Pops I listened to those stories as if they were being told for the first time, not the hundredth. I never once told him I had already heard this story before.

Captain Bigger, bolder than life, my eyes always twinkled with delight as he spoke and looked into my eyes with pure love and joy.

King I haven’t met a man like him since and I don’t think I ever will.

Rebecca Agauas

Bio: Rebecca Agauas is a woman who lives in Michigan. She is a person living with chronic illnesses and is an advocate for the chronic illness community. Rebecca has been writing for a few years and considers writing a form of self expression and self reflection. She has self published 2 books and has been published and received recognition from various literary magazines. You can find Rebecca on Instagram @rebeccaagauas.

Slate Tiles each day falls like descendants of slate tiles off of a roof built by men long gone their wives forever encased in snickerdoodle recipes pulled out once a year the arguments with their husbands echoing through lead-coated pipes the silence of a dipped neck as the wife looks at the bubbles left on plates washed but not dried each bump of suds that wouldn’t taste great if eaten with spaghetti since everything has to pass a normalcy test

Morgan Boyer

Bio: Morgan Boyer is the author of The Serotonin Cradle (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and a graduate of Carlow University. Boyer has been featured in Kallisto Gaia Press, Thirty West Publishing House, Oyez Review, Pennsylvania English, and Voices from the Attic.

Boyer is a neurodivergent bisexual woman who resides in Pittsburgh, PA.

Heroes of Papyrus I once adored a boy Made of words and metaphors.

He’s not a cookie-cutter– For the ships he sailed, For the wars he fought, For the planes he flew in Adriatic Sea. If you look too closely, You will realize that He’s the brother you haven’t seen in ages.

He’s the neighbor who helped you When no one else didn’t offer a thing.

He’s a stranger you thought was bad When, in fact, he meant to do good.

Heroes of papyrus aren’t paper-thin Nor are they figments of a desperate, Moony-eyed artist.

They feed a hungry heart, From poets to novelists.

Generations after generations, Piles of ink blotted And spilled for building these heroes.

Alas! I made a mistake.

Does life imitate art?

Or does art imitate life?

Liezl Villanueva

Bio: Liezl Villanueva is a writer based in the Philippines. When she is not writing, you can find her in the countryside, dreaming of other worlds with her mountain bike. Her work has previously appeared in Open Door Poetry Magazine. You can reach her @liezlcv_ on Twitter and Instagram.

Bleeding Heart Betrayal, on repeat.

Heart weeps.

Eyes dry, insides cry.

Dead inside, before the bloom.

Fertilize my wounds with love and care.

Watch me overcome pain's sweep.

As I sway to a loving beat.

Chelsey Jordan Bio: Chelsey Jordan is a contemporary poet and artist based in Michigan. She is known for her funky watercolor doodle art and unique writing pieces. Her work can be found on Instagram under the handle “cjwordsandotherfeelings.”

Arctic Heart It's freezing in there Inside her brumous body An avalanche of thoughts Claw their glacial hands Chafing her bones Flakes of frozen words Stab her tongue Memories linger, an elegiac mist Over her arctic heart Siyona

Bio: Siyona is a young writer from Mumbai, India. At the age of ten, she discovered her passion of expressing herself and unveiling her thoughts and emotions to the world through the flow of her pen and she has been writing relentlessly ever since.

Her Instagram page which goes by the username spillingpoetry_ exhibits an interesting collection of her writing pieces.

Sunrises There's something about the birds chirping As the sun coats the sky golden Peachy patches puddling blues That feel like a homecoming The joy as the forest shades mate with its awesomeness Both destined to twirl in a divine and soulful praise dance

I wish I can sip more sunrises Puckered lips, eyes closed into savoring To freeze time and master pieces of it into my memory Touching everywhere visible And leave a dawning impression

I want to sit with the sun slouched over the horizon for a while Its delicate rays pouring through my strands Trimming away the tangled thoughts feeding from my brittle ends Colors of my interior burn in deep charcoal and blues The muddy black murals turning me shadows of midnight hues

The allure of daybreak entices me in a pipe dream The birds chirp along, aiding the master in creation Turning all of my ruins into sunny, sacred treasures

To live a life of wonder, surrendered to the light of love To carry these enchanting notes like a call from a mourning dove Basking in a beam of brilliancy, buttoned in a soft awakening

Is a sweet homecoming That rises each day from a distance To pull back the curtains, to salute the rise of our existence

Jasmine Tate

Love’s Latest Trend In a world of screens and endless scrolls, two hearts sync up, finding their rhythm.

Soul mates, they call them, kindred and true, in the digital dance, a love fresh and new.

Through the noise of tweets, the blur of feeds, their connection stands out, meeting their needs.

In emojis and texts, in shared Spotify songs, their souls recognise where each belongs.

Eyes that speak in pixels, a touch through a screen, in this modern realm, their love is evergreen.

Through video calls, memes they send, their bond unbroken, love’s latest trend.

Shared laughter in a late-night chat, GIFs and stories where their hearts are at.

Comfort in silence, FaceTime's warm glow, joy in their voices, a simple “hello."

Knowing someone, profile and all, a mirror of your soul, in every call.

A hand you virtually hold when the world seems tough, a steadfast anchor, love more than enough.

Every snap, every heart-filled text, the promise of forever, what comes next.

Soul mates understand, love is a journey, hand in digital hand.

Through updates and changes, across cyber space, their love is constant, a timeless embrace.

In the grand scheme of likes, in the followers’ flood, soul mates are the connection, life in the blood.

In each other's presence, they've found their way, soul mates in eternity, in the modern day.

N.C.

Heatwave When you sweat like a murderer in confession And all you’ve done is stand up When there aren’t enough ice lollies in the world When saunas are cold comfort When the breeze uphill is like Someone’s trained a hairdryer on you When brass monkeys look smug When beige is the new green When even cats pant When reservoirs recede To reveal old spires When you’re wide-eyed, sleepless Waiting for the bedroom to go ‘Ping!’

When you turn the pillow to the cool side And there is no cool side When the heat waves And you daren’t wave back Dave Kurley Bio: Dave lives in central Portugal with his wife and two cats. He published a book of his poems a couple of years ago, called ‘Irritating the Silver Lining’. Have a search for it, if you fancy. You can find his poems and photos at @kurleybobspoetrycorner on Instagram, Facebook and/or Threads.

Am I More Than Skin I am my peaking ribs And my bragging Pearled collarbones

I am the flap of skin Between my thighs And I’m this belly bag

I am my wrist slipped In between my fingers And the legs taking up a seat

But the other day, you Said something strange You said I was everything I was the stars, and the Crinkle of a smile

That was the first time I saw my own face In a long, long while.

Michelle N. Rain

Bio: Michelle N. Rain, known as “PouringRain” on social media platforms, started writing in her teenage years and begun posting her work in 2022. Her emotional poetry often revolves around themes of mental struggles, heartbreak, and challenging the way she views herself and the world around her. @pouringrainpoems on Instagram

Pure Again I will endure this cell.

Forever.

Or as long as it takes.

Dreaming of a departed measure.

When the raindrops hadn’t learned fear.

And the sandcastles were temples.

Staring at this ceiling.

With the patience of a killer.

Flames for my old life to birth ash.

Holding myself with gentle consequence.

So mighty, so frail.

I awaken in the pale blue egg of a robin.

Pure again.

Adam Brooks

Herald.

Body lying, carved from Tahitian pearls.

Horizon drowning into a destroyer’s herald.

I gladly bled the world to watch all the stars swim into him.

4rgos

Bio: 4rgos is a self-published mid-Atlantic author and mixed media artist currently residing in California. 4rgos can be found online under the handle @_._4rgos_._ on both Instagram and Threads, as well as @_4rgos_ on X. His books “Convenient to Love” and “Take This to Your Dreams” are available on Amazon.

Cycles Repeat after me you cannot repeat the same mistakes again.

Rinse but please do not repeat.

Swish goes those wishes you wish you had had you not did and did and did and did what you did again and again and again.

Those were false loves.

Always unavailable.

Always.

Repeat after me my love.

You cannot repeat the same mistakes again.

Rinse but please do not repeat.

Repeat after me.

M. Baxter

Bungalows of belonging little Brown girl, with no access to the sea, pink bike, high handle bars scrapes on bony elbows gravel mapping blood like messy patterns of home running through a bustling kitchen scarred with burns of a faulty stove navigation of murky water, coming out clean, she jumps back in, to rescue her own armbands How many oceans would she learn to swim across, endlessly searching for a place of peace?

Rina Malagayo Alluri

Bio: Rina Malagayo Alluri (she/her) has been rooted, uprooted and replanted in various soils. She is a peace scholar, yoga practitioner and mother to two headstrong children. Her poetry weaves together experiences of (de)coloniality, diasporic identities and relationships that form/unform. You can find her work in publications such as: Arlington Literary Journal (ArLiJo), Breadfruit mag, Beyond Words Magazine, Carnation Zine, Sunday Mornings at the River, The Hemlock Journal and Yellow Arrow Publishing .IG: @rinamala

The Floppy Headed Boy and the Raven Haired Girl I thought I was jealous Of the floppy headed boy And the raven haired girl They were friends She linked romantically with another Him all alone Just friends But a friendship I longed to be part of They would talk of movies Of shows Of amulets Of tarot readings And beliefs in another world I would look Eager Yet hesitant and afraid What if they didn’t like me?

Allowing myself To dwell and lose hope at impressing Those who weren’t aware I yearned to belong I was jealous of the raven haired girl And the woman who claimed her as a pal

They took pictures Wore makeup Beat drums Meditated Chanted Gave back to the universe By thanking the earth I thought I wanted what they had Until I opened my eyes New interests emerged New smiles And faces Help and support Coming from unknown sources I still feel sad When the floppy headed boy And raven haired girl are seen chatting Still get down on myself When I realize I’ll never have what the raven haired girl and the other woman share Him leaping and jumping To get closer to her in the circle The woman clamoring over the raven haired girl whenever she gets a chance The raven haired girl’s warm smile embracing all What’s pity and what’s genuine?

But I know I know where my true home remains And all is finally right with the world

Samantha Silverstein

Sun-Kissed Summer wraps her arms around me like an old friend, with her popsicle-stained smile and farmers market mornings.

Hints of her humidity stick to my clothes, cling skin tight, clog the air before the impending rainstorm.

She sits with me, drinking pitchers of sweet tea, and serving ice cream that melts too fast.

She feels like home with her gentle breeze kissing my skin, where sunscreen and sand still linger.

She breathes traces of honeysuckle and bonfire smoke, now caught in my hair.

She leaves me with salt-soaked lips after a midnight swim and a sultry moon hung high in the sky.

Bailey

Bio: Bailey is a writer based in the Midwest, who enjoys sending handwritten notes and drinking too much coffee. She is best known for her writing pieces on Instagram under “coffeestainedloveletters.” You can also connect with her on Threads.

Days Like These…

On days like these The golden sun rises with ease Pink skies comfort and coffee brews quickly As the world awakens Wild birds sing in lyrical unison Like trumpeters in a marching band Her inner essence starts strumming at hand

There’s a craving inside Stirring complacency, dissatisfied Nudging her, to become Something of substance Diving deep within, exploring her intuition Igniting ambitions into glorious fruition Emboldening visions of her true self Heart unchained, an emotional wealth

Yes, it’s days like these When everything is possible Those brilliant stars, although distant, Are finally within arm’s reach, a constant

Diane Jackson

Bio: See more of Diane’s work on Instagram: Lost Heart Poetry@LostHeart_Musings

Unbiased Love Part One: The Place Despite the thousand good reasons Learned in the course of a lifetime To fight each other in order to protect The ramparts of their own fortresses There will always be the wickets Far back in the remote corners of their strongholds Towards the virgin spot between... … Their pacified wildflower garden A sacred place this is Ever the same – forever changing Where they meet in unbiased presence With their futures and their pasts In this place – inviolate and pure Nothing and no one may intrude Each word one too many Numbing noises far

Part Two: The Ritual And they come there as a whole Not as the sum of their broken parts Naked and cleansed To present each other their beating hearts And as a mutual offering They bring their wounds and scars Their fears and hopes Dissolved in tears In a sacred vessel From which drink they both As sign of trust To renew their bond

Part Three: Her Seeing There, she can see the boy he was Freezing under the stern gaze of his father Friendly and lonely With no roots to settle The young man trying hard to be good And to live up to the many expectations Never fair or reasonable Or even such that they could be met at all She sees the man chasing dreams Listening to the wind And letting it blow the tumble weeds Clean through his soul Sees it all at once The settled one, content and humble And the old and wise Looking back at her with love and a smile

Part Four: His Seeing And he He wants to see through it all His eyes saying: "Show me all, let me see!"

Then gently but determined Takes off the cloak that envelops her “Show me the scars That you believe disfigure you.”

And carefully takes off The harlequin mask of her face “I can bare the grief and exhaustion Revealed underneath.”

Part Five: The love And she feels love in all its definitions The kind of love a mother has for her son A woman for her man And a daughter for her father She allows it all Lets him lean on her as a son Crave her as a man Reassure her as a loving father She feels passionate love for him Not plain passion But a passion for his soul and mind To be entangled with hers at times Yes, she loves him!

Without explanation or good reason That – she thinks by herself – is by far The best way of loving someone

Part Six: The End It’s just that sometimes they forget How to find that wicket In the labyrinth and thicket Of their armed strongholds And they fight Until they just listen To the small voice In the stillness and the dark To guide them back To the start To the place Of unbiased love Anne Kulou

intimate nostalgia I wanted to vanish into the sunset with you... you with your sweet honey mouth and purposeful hands who feels like home to me like I've known you from a past imagined from a past not brought into life simmering there blurry in the cinema of my mind in the form of motion pictures on an old film roll with nice music laid underneath I see sunshine and children playing and dogs lots of dogs and a swing yes, a swing at a lake with an old willow tree I see two young souls still pure at heart overflowing when together in longing when apart

writing letters telling secrets tears on heavy paper intimate nostalgia anticipating a next summer which has already – passed Anne Kulou

Bio: Anne Kulou is a self-taught neurodivergent artist, starting to write poetry in childhood as a means to express her rich imaginative mind and her non-dualistic experience of the natural world, deeply intertwined with her inner sensory, cognitive and emotional processes. In 2022, she added photography as an equally powerful and subtle medium for creative expression, as another and combined way for her to say the unfathomable, the in-between. She lives in Germany and works as a forensic psychologist (MSc) and trauma sensitive Gestalt psychotherapist. You can find her online on Instagram under @_ankuords_ and @_ankulou_.

Ⓒ Glass Gates Publishing, 2024